4. Frankie

4 /

frankie

The freshman fifteen is legit.

I’ve been away at college for five months, and in that time, my jeans have gotten a little tighter, and a few of my favorite sweaters hug my chest with a little more . . . curve. As a girl who has always worn B cups but got to buy her first Cs, I haven’t minded the extra weight up top so much. But as I try to slide into my holiday skating dress for the photo booth, those extra curves are making the cut a little more revealing.

“Just don’t pick anything up in front of anyone and you should be fine,” Mazy advises through the crunch of pretzels she’s stuffing into her mouth.

I spin around and face her in my kitchen, having just bent down to pluck my meal prep container from the bottom shelf of the fridge.

“Is it that bad?” I wince.

She pauses with her half-eaten pretzel an inch from her lips.

“I mean, bad is subjective. You’ll probably get a lot more tips.”

I cover my face with my hands and groan.

“It’s not that bad, Frankie.”

I peel a few of my fingers away to glare at her.

“I literally have to pick small children up all afternoon to help them onto Santa’s lap.” And Santa happens to be the one guy I want to be modest in front of most.

“Maybe wear bloomers underneath,” she says.

My chin drops to my chest, and I shudder with a short, frustrated laugh.

“I’m wearing bloomers.” I lift my skirt to reveal very short shorts, shifting my hip to the side so she can see how high up they ride.

She chuckles.

“All I’m saying is, I wish I looked like that in bloomers.” She pops another pretzel in her mouth, the crunch irritating me now.

“Yeah, well, I’m not at the club. I’m at Santa’s Workshop.” I shimmy my skirt down as low as it will ride on my hips. Because the outfit is basically a one-piece, though, it rides up the second I lift my arms again.

“That’s it. I’m putting sweatpants on underneath,” I grumble, moving toward the stairs. Mazy grabs my wrist and stops me before I get too far. She levels me with a wry smirk and a hard stare.

“Are you afraid of being feminine in front of strangers, or are you afraid of being sexy in front of Noah Drake?”

I exhale and let my gaze wander to the side as I chew at the inside of my mouth.

“A little of both. But mostly, looking like this— ” I fluff up my skirt up with my hands. “In front of Noah.”

My friend takes both of my hands in hers and shakes them twice.

“I’m your best friend, Frankie. And I will never lie to you. Agreed?”

I nod, knowing she’s ninety-nine percent genuine. She would spare my feelings with a small, meaningless fib, but only rarely. Mazy has always told me the truth. She’s also told me everything. Which makes the fact I haven’t told her about the kiss sit even heavier in my stomach.

“Will you maybe get some extra looks from a handful of dads who show up tonight? Probably. Some moms? Maybe. It will be brief and quickly forgotten. But when it comes to making an impression on Noah, one that he will etch into his memory and torture himself with all winter long? That’s a definite yes. Miller Brook’s favorite playboy goalie will be obsessed. And if one of us has a chance to bring that boy to his knees, I say we take it.”

I hold her gaze for a beat and consider that word choice— obsessed. Noah said he was as much. I figured he was simply trying to get under my skin, but maybe he truly does regret how he left things between us this summer. I wouldn’t mind torturing him a little more, let him really see what he missed out on, what he could have had.

“You’re right,” I finally say, squeezing her hands before letting go to gather my keys, phone, water bottle, and afternoon snacks into a small backpack.

“That’s my girl!”

Mazy follows me out the door, heading to her car, which is parked on the street. She pulls the bright yellow sailor hat from her back pocket and clips it to her hair to hold it in place. She’s working at the custard stand downtown over the holiday break, and as self-conscious as I may be about wearing this short, green costume dress, she’s the exact opposite, wearing her bright yellow egg-shaped outfit loud and proud.

I snag my skates from the garage and rush to my car in the driveway, dumping my blades and backpack on the backseat floor before sliding into the driver’s seat and cranking the engine to get the heat going. I rub my hands together in front of the vent and remind myself there are heaters near the photo booth, and the nylon tights I’m wearing will help stave off some of the chill after a lap or two around the rink.

After a quick touch-up of my lipstick and double check of my lashes and hair, I pull out of our neighborhood and make my way to the workshop set. I spot Noah’s Bronco near the arena, where he’s skating with my brother. I check my watch, noting he still has five minutes before he’s late. Not that I have any recourse, or am even his boss. At least not formally. This is my project, though. I started it, and the community center has come to count on the funds raised to buy extra food to feed the low-income seniors and members of our community every Christmas Eve. There is no way I’m letting Noah mess that up.

I set my backpack into the small lockbox behind the background, then sit on top of it, using it as a bench as I lace up my skates. It’s been a while since I’ve taken to the ice. My North Carolina campus doesn’t have the same easy access to ice for skating. I find my balance and slowly glide out to the middle of the rink, moving to the left and right until I find my usual rhythm and pick up speed. After a lap, I test my legs and shift to skate backward. I’ve never been more than a novice at figure skating, but by the end of last winter, I was able to do a slow spin and single axel. Granted, my arms usually flail aimlessly at my sides to maintain my balance. I might score a two, maybe a two and a half, in a competition. But I can land it—most of the time.

With my second lap under my belt and my legs finally warm, I bend my knees and stretch out my arms, then take a deep breath and push up from the ice. My toe pick catches the ice three quarters of the way through my turn, sending me into an awkward cartwheel-turned-summersault. I slide a dozen feet on my knees before finally coming to a stop and flopping on my ass. The cold bites hard.

“Oh, damn!” I shout, brushing ice from my knees and checking my tights for holes.

“You might be a bit rusty for tricks,” Noah says as he slides to a stop at my side. He kneels and holds out a hand.

I’m sure I’m a million shades of red, and not from frostbite. My face is hot, and I feel incredibly foolish. Plus, the skirt I was so worried about before is hiked up to my hips, and the crotch on my bloomers is cutting deep.

“Yeah, I forgot that skating isn’t quite like riding a bike,” I whine, taking Noah’s hand and grabbing hold of his bicep with my other.

“Yeah, it’s like riding a bike . . . on ice,” he says through a deep chuckle.

My eyes scan his legs as he helps me up, the red velvet of the Santa pants now damp and crusted with ice at the knees. As he hoists me to a complete stand, I fall into his chest, my feet skipping along the slick surface in a fury to find my balance. Noah’s hands drop to my waist, and he steadies me as he widens his stance.

“Whoa, you okay?” He dips his chin and meets my gaze.

I blink a few times, my focus still on the ice between us. His fingers at my chin, he nudges my face up until our eyes meet. His cheeks dimple with his smile, his breath a short laugh. I’m so embarrassed.

“I’m okay,” I breathe out, breaking our connection and pushing away from his steady hold.

I skate to the workshop without trying anything fancy and snag the small hand towel I left behind after yesterday’s painting session. I use it to brush the ice from my costume, then toss it to Noah as he skates up. He brushes off his knees, then tosses it back to me. It’s then I realize he’s not wearing a shirt under the fluffy red coat. His chest is on full display, all the way down to his belly button. And a little lower.

“Umm, it’s not really Magic Mike Meets Santa,” I say, gesturing to his exposed body and trying like hell not to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. He’s in better shape than I remember. Are these the same washboard abs he had at the lake over the summer? No wonder I let him kiss me. And kissed him back.

“I was still kinda hot from skating sprints. I’ll button up when we get our first visitors.”

I nod before turning my back to him and mumbling quietly, “Or you could button up now so I don’t have to work so hard not to like you.”

“Huh?”

Shit. He heard that.

“Nothing,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. His smirk confirms my hunch.

If I’m going to get through the next two weeks, I need to focus on the job. Maybe Mazy was right, and we’ll end up getting more tips. Perhaps we’ll get a few adults and some of the college kids up on Santa’s lap. I mean, who can resist a sexy Santa and a naughty elf in a short skirt?

I punch the code into the lockbox and move my backpack aside so I can take out the box of tiny candy canes I stocked in here yesterday. I’m steadier on the rubber mat, so I stick to it while I rip open the package and avoid the ice until I have to skate around the photo backdrop and flip on the lights.

“I forgot how cool you make this look,” Noah says, hands on his hips, Santa coat still wide open.

I clear my throat and utter, “Thanks.”

His lip ticks up on one side when my gaze drops to the center of his chest.

“Guess it’s time to button up, huh?” He starts at the bottom, working his way up—slowly.

“You know, you can wear a shirt under that,” I mutter, moving back to the mat to turn on the blow-up reindeer and giant, glowing presents.

“It was sweaty. I’ll plan better tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

I glance over my shoulder, his chin tucked as he works the last button in place and pulls the fake beard from his pocket.

“It’s okay,” I say, not quite loud enough for him to hear. A part of me doesn’t want to let him off the hook. I’m sure he was sweaty after skating for the last two hours, but I also think he flaunted his bare chest in front of me on purpose.

“Hey, Frankie. You want me to set up like we did last year?” Norris Gibson’s grizzled voice fills my lungs with air. Part of it is relief that it’s no longer just Noah and me, but mostly I’m elated by the familiar warmth I get when I’m around the man who used to coach my dad back when he played hockey.

“Aww, it’s great to see you,” I say, hobbling toward the older man in the gray wool pageboy hat. I welcome his hug with my own, embracing him and inhaling the sweet scent of expensive cigar that always sticks to his scraggly beard. It’s his only indulgence. He’s been a fixture at our local newspaper for forty years. High school hockey coaching was his side gig.

“Always my favorite part of the year. You know, one of the younger photographers at the paper volunteered to work the booth this year, but I flexed my seniority.” He coughs out a laugh as Noah steps up to take his gear bag from him.

“Well, I didn’t know we had a celebrity Santa this year. Good to see you, Noah.” He cups Noah’s free hand in both of his, giving him an exaggerated shake.

“Yeah, I sort of fell into the gig,” he says, his eyes darting to me for a beat. I think he’s waiting for me to tattle on him, but I’m over the shock of it all. If he needs volunteer hours for school, I guess this makes sense. It’s really his only free time, and my dad does deserve a boys’ trip.

“He gave my dad the season off so he could golf,” I add. Noah’s lips curve a tick, and I think that shade of pink on his cheeks is the guilty kind. He bends down to open Norris’s gear bag and begins constructing his light kit.

“That’s awful nice. Wonder if he’ll regret that after the first kid pees his pants,” Norris chuckles.

Noah’s head pops up, his guilty smirk replaced by wide eyes and an open mouth.

“Wait, what?”

I wave my hand at him and lower myself to my knees so I can help twist the support beams together.

“It rarely happens. Maybe once or twice,” I say.

“Oh, that’s better. Wait . . . do you mean, like, ever? Or a season?”

I bite my bottom lip and shift my gaze to Norris. He can’t contain his big belly laugh. He pats Noah on the shoulder a few times and waddles his way toward the Santa chair, still chuckling. Noah leans over the gear, close to me.

“Why is he laughing?”

I suck in my lips, trying to hold my own laugh in now.

“He means once or twice a day,” I admit, wincing as my shoulders hike.

“Son of a?—”

Noah drops the light stand on the bag and stands, stretching his arms over his head and threading his hands behind his neck as he paces along the mat, then steps on the ice.

“I figured my dad would have told you,” I holler.

He holds out a thumb, but his mouth is a tight line, and he’s beginning to skate a bit faster. He always does that when someone makes him mad on the ice. It’s a trick my dad taught him to work out frustrations and cool his temper.

“Think he knows we’re exaggerating and teasing him?” Norris laughs out as he rests on the velvet tufted chair.

I shrug.

“He could use a little humbling.”

After a few laps, Noah joins me to finish setting up the lighting kit. Norris tests out his framing, adjusting his tripod a few times before ordering Noah to take a seat on the throne. It’s strange seeing him sit in that chair. So much of him reminds me of my dad, but there are a lot of things that are not my father at all. Things that could get me in trouble—like the way his hands flex on the chair’s arms and how the red pants stretch around his thighs. And my dad’s skates are old and scuffed, but Noah’s are a sleek black.

“Frankie, you mind playing bratty kid for me for a second?” Norris asks as he points with his hand above the camera, his face pressed against the viewfinder.

“Like, on his lap?”

Noah’s chuckle is clear.

“Yeah, just for a few test shots. It’s not like you don’t know each other.”

My mouth straightens, and my stomach twists. Yeah, we know each other. We’ve kissed. And I’ve fantasized. And apparently, Noah’s now obsessed. The thought of sitting on that lap, with those legs . . .

I swallow hard.

“Sure,” I croak.

I take baby steps toward Noah, partly stalling. His cocky smirk doesn’t help matters, but then he takes my hand, and his palm is so warm. His grip is strong but gentle, and the touch of his other hand around my waist is firm and proper. The thought of his hand lowering on my leg flashes through my mind as I spin around and skootch my way onto his lap.

“Sorry, I’m heavier than a toddler,” I grumble.

Noah’s hands find my waist again, and he pulls me into him until my back hits his chest.

“You’re perfect,” he says at my ear. His breath is warm, and it tickles against my neck. I reach up to adjust my hair, pulling some of it over my shoulder as a shield. When I drop my hands to my lap, though, Noah brushes the locks back over my shoulder, exposing my skin to him again. The shivers down my arm and spine happen instantly.

“Is the beard okay?” he asks.

I twist and crane my neck to look at him. Our mouths are inches apart, and my gaze drops from his eyes to his mouth just as his tongue peeks out. I reach up to tug the beard a little to test how much it moves. His full lips stretch with his smile, and I get a glimpse of his dimple when I pull the beard out a little more.

“You might be in trouble with the skeptical kids. But they’ll be excited that Santa’s a famous college hockey player, so I guess it’s fine.”

He breathes out a short laugh, and our gazes lock again. Diamonds light up in his pupils as Norris tests his flash. Our connection doesn’t break, even though Noah’s probably a little blind right now.

“I’m not famous,” he says.

My mouth twists, and I squint my left eye.

“You’re a little famous. You have a fandom. They’re . . . very aggressive.”

His mouth draws in tight, and his chest fills with a long draw of air.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t pick those fans. I’m more interested in the scouts. And a certain elf.”

My body warms. Damn him, he’s so charming. He’s such a flirt, which I have always known. But when those powers are focused on me? He makes it really hard to keep my guard up.

“I’m not an elf,” I explain. “I’m Santa’s helper.”

My eyes flutter closed when I realize that doesn’t sound much better. In fact, it sounds a lot worse, given this situation. Noah’s body quakes with his silent laughter and I turn to face Norris again. My brows lift high.

“We about done here?”

He holds up a finger.

“Yeah, it looks good. Let me just get one good one of you two, my gift to your parents. Moms always love this stuff.”

I grumble and wriggle a few inches down Noah’s thigh.

“I don’t think they care?—”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Noah contradicts, pulling me back into him.

“Great. One second,” Norris says, adjusting his lens and checking the settings on his laptop. He has it set up to a small printer so we can send people home with their shots.

I twist my head to my side, stopping when I feel the curls of Noah’s fake beard against my cheek.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

He shifts under me as his lips hover at my neck.

“Yes.” The word comes out slow and smooth, like a long pour of expensive bourbon. It’s enough to make my heart kick and tingles run down my arms and legs, wrapping around my thighs and pushing me to squirm a little in his lap.

And then I feel him. He lets out a ragged breath against my neck, and his nose grazes my skin. He’s so hard right now, and I’m sitting in a very powerful position.

“Oh!” I say, letting delight color my tone and outweigh the threat of embarrassment.

I cross my legs, pressing my ass into him more, and his forehead falls against my cheek.

“If you want me to get up when we’re done, Frankie, you better?—”

I shift again, feeling him flex under my ass cheek, and now I’m a little turned on.

“You don’t have to get up for a while. You’ll be fine.”

He exhales into the curve of my neck, reigniting the goose bumps I just tamed. The fingers on his left hand dig into my hip, and his other hand covers my folded ones above my knee. He coaxes our tethered hands upward, stopping at the hem of my short skirt right at the curve of my hip.

“Will you be fine?” he hums.

“Okay, look up here. And smile, you two,” Norris says, barely breaking through the bubble I’ve formed around Noah and me.

I force my mouth into a wide smile and brighten my eyes, which desperately want to flutter closed again now that Noah has shifted his legs and pressed himself directly against my aching center.

The flashes blind me, but I wouldn’t have been able to see straight anyhow. Because no—I’m not fine. I’m far from it. And I’m kind of okay with that.